We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow
by spoomed
Summary: '...Where his ignited words may flare to a blaze and immolate her whole, she returns ten-fold with a chilling, barren silence—quietness like ice that burns from beneath the skin.' (-CH2 excerpt) Multi-shot Theron/Lana interaction blurbs (for now). Mini-project in between projects...writing prompts welcome!
1. I - Conversations

...Because I can't get over this ship and stupid blurbs have been hanging around in those word docs forever like a bunch of assholes just mocking me. :| FINE. I'm posting things.

Title was inspired by a song of the same name, by SoKo.

 _Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by and using characters and elements from Star Wars: The Old Republic, creative property of BioWare._

* * *

 **I**

 **|| Conversations ||**

There is simply something about her he can't place. She's too well-mannered. She's too considerate. She's too tame.

 _And she's a Sith._

There is almost nothing he can think of to say. To pass the time. He hates silence when there's no reason to be. He hates the awkwardness that comes from it when there are two people and not a single word exchanged across the marginal distance between them. (They are literally only ever steps away from each other.)

It seems that there are few things of interest that they have in common. What he finds is entertaining, she considers to be uninspiring. The things that she considers are engaging, he finds to be utterly exhaustive—maybe tedious, at best. In fact, he finds _her_ to be all-around a bit boring.

But surprisingly, she is a rather pleasant conversationalist. When the rare occasion calls for it. She is by no means an extrovert, and neither is he, but she listens and responds and opines. In fact, there are even some things he finds he does agree with her on.

In those rare occasions, they talk about the weather, the climate—how unbearable the humidity is. How irritating the temperamental skies and seas have shown to be on Rishi. That while the locals appear to be quite accustomed to it, neither of them have been able to adjust over the past few weeks in the least.

They talk about their travels. To what corners of the galaxy they've been. Which other backwaters like this they'd passed through before. He particularly dislikes Tatooine, the world of insufferable heat and peoples even far more so. For her, this world is Hoth, where even the mere memory of the unmerciful cold still chills her to the very core. For both, Rishi is not a distant second, but it is still a _second_ , nonetheless.

They even talk about their mutual dislike of the silence. How stupid it'd seemed then. Those weeks they'd spent in the uncomfortable, unwelcome and utter _quiet_ in the hollows of their refuge. Both having thought to be respectful in accommodation of the other in the stillness. Both reluctant to speak a word in excess for fear of exasperating the other. (Though of the two, it'd been _he_ who'd seemed to be perpetually annoyed by Deefour's incessant and wearying chatter during those dreaded visits paid by Jakarro and his droid from abroad.)

It'd only been upon the occasion—the first of its kind—when he'd returned to their hideout from his errands to the static hums of a peculiar hyperwave station in the air.

 _Music_.

It'd been an uncommon kind he neither regularly heard nor sought to listen to. It'd been an old and brassy sound. The kind one might hear in the lounge of a formal hotel, the kind a full-bodied ensemble might play for the evening guests of a grand, celebrated occasion.

And so it would begin with the simple question— _'what kind of music do_ you _like?'_

Something so small. So _stupid_. Many conversations, after all, begin with a question. Of course, neither of them would think to even _ask_ until then.

So the time passes, and there is less silence. There is less unpleasant awkwardness between two people who no longer haven't a reason to speak. And even he begins to think that perhaps, she is not so boring after all.

And simply because two people may have few things in common, it does not make them incompatible. It does not make them enemies.

But that is precisely what they are. They may not be in any private manner, but by virtue and by all principles they are both bound by, they indeed _are_.

He finds that he must remind himself of this from time to time—on such occasions when he doesn't remember right away that it is an Imperial, a _Sith,_ he is talking to. Rather, he only inherently remembers that it is another human with whom he shares such conversations. A mere human woman.

Because that is precisely what she is. And this, he finds he must constantly remind himself not to _forget_.

And she is the _only_ woman with whom he shares these long weeks. The only woman in his presence, the only woman he speaks to. It is not by choice, but by necessity—a thing he has also grown somewhat resentful of, in spite of all his efforts not to be. There is no time to be resentful. Because for all he knows, they might be dead by tomorrow.

Days upon days become weeks in the passing time, and little changes. They are still there. They are still fugitives. They are still enemies. And she is _still_ a mere human woman.

And _he_ is but a mere human man. He is not _that_ kind of man. But the thoughts— _yes_ , he has thought about it.

At first, it is only a puerile musing, one he dismissively laughs off in comical irony. But he does like her enough, and then it suddenly doesn't seem like such a tawdry thing. Then every other time he looks at her again, he catches himself thinking just how pretty she really is. Quite lovely, actually. And it stops being just a passing fancy anymore.

The very thought seems so asinine, he thinks. But they are both adults, and they are both human, he tells himself. What's the worst to come of it?

 _She'll reject—_

But he has been rejected before.

 _She'll take offense—_

It isn't as though they aren't already wary of one another.

 _I'll lose her respect—_

 _Ah_ , something that gives him reservations.

For some days, it lingers at the back of his mind. So many instances when he thinks to ask her, only for his entire resolve to wither the moment she turns to look at him. All because of his own self-conscious misgivings. Even though he is aware and has told himself that he would never know, never have his answer until he simply _asks_.

 _It's just a question. Just the one._

All it ever begins with is just a question.

"...I'm just saying," Theron says to her one day, as casually as he can possibly make himself sound, "anything can happen, you know? It's possible. We _might_. Maybe at some point further down the line. Maybe at the very end of all this. Maybe even tomorrow."

It's a macabre thought he doesn't ever like to dwell on, but it's enough of a reason. At least for him, it passes for one.

"So, I'm just...you know. Putting it out there," he shrugs. "And...don't feel weird about it either way. We're adults," he turns to mention over his shoulder just briefly. "Or whatever."

It's only an excuse for a glimpse. Just a clue to her reaction. Because he can't seem to look at her straight in the eye when he asks this. Even before knowing, he already begins to feel he's gone about this the completely wrong way.

But there in the briefest exchange of glances, he catches the merest hint of contemplation in her. As she turns and locks her gaze, he can see, even though she is hiding it well, that there is the same curious fascination behind them his own have known. Something that hasn't just suddenly come upon even her most conscious thoughts. (To his relief. And of course, he hides this as well.)

He is quick to look away, quick to mind himself—his eyes, his fingers, his _thoughts_ —with the nearest thing his hands can reach for. So he takes the datapad sitting on the console and begins to tap away at its screen, at nothing in particular. The silence, however brief, is unbearable, and he feels the compulsive urge to fill it in any way possible. Now, he thinks, even though he has meant her no offense, he is almost certain to have roused it by his bold invitation.

Yet to his surprise, the response she gives is unexpectedly quite tame. There is no thorough rebuff. There is no insult or indignity given or received. No. In fact, she responds quite openly and pragmatically. He could not expect any less of Lana Beniko.

"Ever so cautious with your words, aren't you?" he hears her voice hum on a clear breath.

He then listens as her steps bring her closer to where he stands before the computer console.

 _'Is she being sarcastic...?'_ he thinks to himself, as he can never tell with her at times, and it quite truly annoys him. But then he realizes that he does it all the time to her—but at least he's obvious about it. He finds he is unable to dash the vexing thoughts that still wonder—maybe it _was_ a bad idea to mention this at all. So he continues to occupy himself with his datapad.

Until it is her hand that stops him, deliberately placed flat over the screen of the device to draw his attention. He pauses and finally _really_ looks at her. It suddenly then dawns on him now that it would have been easier to be upfront to actually _be_ upfront.

He sees the still, polite smile on her face. The same one she always offers. Though he hasn't gotten much better at reading her expressions, he knows, at least, that they are not insincere.

"It's...flattering. And thank you for saying something," she tells him almost haltingly.

In her values, honesty is always deserving of recognition. In fact, she is thankful that he had been the one to take the initiative, sparing _her_ from the admittedly daunting task she knows she is not delicate enough, or possibly even daring enough, to address. How thankful she truly is, for once, for Theron's seeming guilelessness.

While the surface of her expression doesn't appear to shift in the least, he can discern all the movements taking course beneath as she considers.

"I don't think it's the most... _sensible_ thing to bring into this alliance..."

She is somewhat hesitant as she finds she must search for the most genuine way to give an answer that she must convince even herself is the right one to give.

It is, however, enough for him.

He presses his lips together, bearing a cursory smile and a simple nod.

"Yeah. Okay."

And that is enough to settle matters for her. (For now, at least.)

She lifts her hand from his datapad screen to let him return to his work. And in consideration of him (and herself as well, she supposes), she leaves to give him a private moment of peace. Yet with every step that takes her farther away, she begins to question more and more if she _had_ given him the right answer.

The words he's said resound over and over in her mind.

 _It's possible. We_ might _. Maybe at some point further down the line. Maybe at the very end of all this. Maybe even tomorrow..._

 _No_ , she convinces herself once again, _it_ was _right_.

But then it becomes clearer, too, that it was not the answer she _wanted_ to give. Because for just that brief moment, without even meaning to, he has her convinced that they _might_ actually die.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Yeah, I know, I'm bad. Why in seven hells am I posting random stuff like this when there are other bigger projects to be working on? :|

'Cause...IMPULSE WRITING! D:

Argh. There's a Mt. Crapmore of random notes and junk I've compiled for this damn ship, and I think it's just gotten to the point of excess where I can't not do something with at least SOME of it. So, I dunno. I don't know what I'm doing with this one, lol. I think it's mostly going to be blurb-esque, in the stylings of mah usual borderline-obsessive insights and whathaveyous into this cursed ship that is Theron/Lana. Updates might be sporadic, at best? #plotlessbutnotreally #whatevercomestomind #dunnowhatimdoing #dammitwritingimpulses #etcetera

And just to be fun—writing prompts are welcome? Lol. No, but seriously, feel free to pop any suggestions in a review. :) I dunno...gives me stuff to play with between forreal projects and...I get bored with my own ideas sometimes...? Or they just end up in dead ends, I don't knowwww. :P

...IMPULSE WRITING! \o/

(As always, reviews are kindly appreciated! ^_^)


	2. II - Fractures - Reflection

Ahhh! Hey everyone! Yes, **I'M ALIIIVE**! I am so, so sorry for the forever wait for an update. This is but a wee little one, but I hope it's enough of something to enjoy. ^_^

* * *

 **II**

 **|| Fractures ||**

"What is it?"

As she minds her own tasks, tapping away at her datapad, her voice comes out a bit more coarsely than intended. She directs her question across the table at her only other companion, but her gaze seems tethered still to the small screen in her hands.

He blinks at her unprompted question. No word has been exchanged for some time now since they've taken their separate seats at this table, so it comes unexpectedly. He doesn't even know of what nature her question is intended.

" _What?_ " he retorts with the same succinct manner. Though it seems as though she might want to start another of those 'nice' conversations, he suddenly feels in no mood for one.

"That face. You look like there's something on your mind. Whatever it is, just say it," she spells out in her unchanged, listless tone. It isn't contentious. It isn't accusatory. Only neutral. Simply and benignly so, as it often is with this Sith Lord.

And it is something that vexes her agent companion to no end. He hates that he can't read a damned thing out of her. And it's even worse that she doesn't even _try_. It's enough to tell him that she isn't _being_ aloof. She just _is_.

"I don't have anything to say," he answers, but his pointed response comes out just a hair too defensive to merit any actual reason to be disregarded. He suddenly feels like a kid caught on a lie, and just like one, he grows still with the inward hopes that he's gotten away with it.

"Fine."

Her decisive response only comes after a briefest pause. One just long enough to cause the agent to stall on a hanging breath. She visibly hasn't appeared to stir in the slightest, but his peripheral can only reveal so much of her. So he steals a quick peek from his own datapad screen, looking and pondering over whether or not _she_ might also be pondering herself. In the too quiet, too pensive moments like these, he often finds himself wondering if she, too, conducts herself in the same habitual over-vigilance as he. Until, that is, it dawns on him just how tiring it is to play this game of theoreticals with himself in his own solitary mind.

 _This is how a guy loses it. Just fucking stop._

The focus of his eyes drifts beyond that of his screen before he finally does manage to murmur something aloud. "I was just wondering..."

" _Of course,_ " she mutters to herself on a sigh, wondering why he does this. She is certain it isn't a deficiency in his attention. Agent Theron Shan is nothing if not compulsively meticulous about these things.

 _Oh. Perhaps_ that _is why._

"A little... _curious_ , that's all..."

Holding little store of patience for these most vagrant strands of meandering banter, she asks with her full attention now, if only to sooner draw whatever wayward little thought he might have teetering at the tip of his tongue.

"What is it, Theron?"

The frosty glaze of both her tone and gaze don't go unnoticed by him, yet he feels compelled to return it all aptly with an almost ingratiating little grin.

" _'Theron,'_ huh? It isn't _'Agent Shan'_ anymore?"

And, of course, he sees that her expression yields no glimpse of the amusement he holds at the one-sided novelty of this occurrence.

"What _is_ it, Theron?" she asks again with emphasis. She is in no mood to humor this.

His lips thin at her wintry response. She's just too serious sometimes, he grumbles to himself. But he also admits that it's a common complaint that goes both ways. It seems that the difficulty more so lies in their timing of one another than anything else. But then again, he recognizes, they also seem _stupid_ lucky when it comes to the most coincidental mishaps to possibly happen where this... _unconventional_ pair is concerned. How else did one explain their current circumstances? This... 'alliance,' as they've agreed to call it. Though upon a third thought, he also acknowledges that it hadn't exactly been _all_ opportune either.

 _Stuck with an Imp, after all. Might as well make some peace with it..._

"You, uh..." he idles over his musings, returning his attention back to his screen with casual finesse. It is but an unwitting, evasive response. As though averting his eyes was enough to distance him from his own incomprehensible misgivings. "So, you got anyone waiting for you at home or anything?"

The simple and rather earnest question quells her busy mind, even halts her movements for that brief second. She blinks as she considers it with little conscious forethought, then answers without so much as a glance before she realizes what he's managed to get her to do.

"No. I don't."

"Hm. Guess that keeps things a little easier," he hums thoughtfully to himself. "Cleaner, too." The atmospheric breeze of his half-minded remark makes it seem as though he'd found the relief he'd been chafing to have for some curious, lingering itch.

"And you?"

Unexpectedly, the Sith woman returns the inherently innocuous question. Though this time, her own temperate ease somehow strikes him right at the core, as though it'd been the searing beam of her lightsaber thrust by her own two hands. He doesn't know why, can't even explain it. Something about her unthinking innocence simply sets his tempers aflame. There are no clear words to define why it is, but he's deeply offended that she even _has_ to ask.

"No. Of _course_ not," he answers sharply, his brows furrowed in the indisputable likeness of his innermost ire. The sensible part of him knows that her question is just as harmless as his own, free of any motive or judgment. But this part of him has no bearing on the words and actions yet to come, effectively silenced and subdued until his mood comes around again.

"Why would I… _Seriously_? I ask you—politely— _once_ —if you wanted to sleep with me. So, I _must_ be the kind of guy who keeps girls around wherever?"

 _Unbelievable. Either you're dumber than you seem, or you think I'm enough of an asshole to pull that kind of shit._

Before a fully conceived thought can come into form in the Sith woman's mind, he cuts her off before she has time to speak a word of rebuttal. She is left still and brittle as hollowed glass in the face of his outburst—unprovoked—as far as her conscience can presently comprehend.

"Look, if I _had_ someone back home, you can be damn sure I wouldn't have even brought any of that crap up with you."

There are times when Theron Shan can be rather temperamental around this particular Sith woman—this, she's come to know and accept now over the sparse weeks of their interaction. There are simply some things, things she isn't even quite certain of, that gives him cause to respond so contentiously. For the sake of their still tenuous alliance, she has conducted herself in such a way as to avoid aggravating any rooted hostilities, personal or otherwise. She has tried exhaustively not to be bothered by his volatile mood. Tried in her own quiet and uninvasive manners to better understand him, to engage the agent without rousing his perpetual annoyance. Because, she knows, if they are to succeed—if they are to _survive_ —their ability to cooperate is imperative.

Oh, but how _trying_ the agent could be. And it frustrates her to no end how implacable he can become when in such a mood. If she can't even carry on a pleasing conversation with him—one _he'd_ initiated—what else is there to be done?

When she scours her present, though relatively brief memory, she knows they have managed to talk before. But even then, their conversations were rarely beyond mere civility. It'd been one thing to be civil and quite another to be _sincere_. Civility was but a simple notion at face value, but it'd carried with it the full complications of mortal bias and all things political. There was no pretense beneath _sincerity_. No effort. No caution.

And she only remembers in afterthought that she has had little experience with this to _really_ know.

She offers a muted sigh before lowering her eyes back to her datapad screen. The breath she takes is every bit as slight as the nuances and shifts of her expression, so masterful in its untelling austerity. But this time, even the agent notes the nearly indiscernible hairline fractures in the porcelain mask. And for the first time, he realizes it for what it is—just a _mask_.

"...I didn't want to assume."

The ethereal composure of her plainspoken comment very nearly dissolves into the harsh tides of his temper, filling the air bit by bit until there is little of it that remains.

"Yeah? Well you could at least assume that I'm a halfway _decent_ guy…" he mutters under his breath. Though he seems to have disengaged, his caustic words still leave a burning mark even against the void.

 _Yes, yes… Of course you need to get your last word in._

And it is this very moment when she suddenly feels compelled against relinquishing this privilege to him. Because it is _always_ his to claim. And he does so _pathologically_. But unlike him, she will not speak out of contempt. It seems there is something he has sorely failed to consider beyond the scope of his belligerence. And as it is within the nature of Lana Beniko, she would share nothing but the honesty of her conscience. If only to simply shut him up just this once.

"I've been the 'other' woman to a decent man before, Theron."

With a certain point to prove, she is deliberate in her clinical and unprejudiced undertones.

Though it is the farthest thing he could expect her to say of all the possibilities, he remains uncompromising in his assumed indifference. "I'm sure you got plenty of kicks out of that…"

"No. It was quite unpleasant, actually."

This time, she stops what she is doing entirely to address the agent. In the challenge of his remorseless sarcasm, she looks across the table's distance directly to him. She makes certain that her barren expression will yield to him no trace of life or color. He may play the hardened aloof if he wants this time, but she has decidedly refused to give this pretentious persona of his any credence.

"He was a generous and affectionate man."

 _If you must know…_

"He seemed happy. Happy to pass the time with me. To speak with...share conversations with me. Happy to have a companion who he'd found delight to be around—"

 _Yes, Agent Shan. Not every being I've known thinks me so insufferable and undesirable as_ _ **you**_ _do._

"—A pretty, young thing who'd treated him well. Who'd appreciated and enjoyed his company. He'd even told me as much."

 _I_ do _make the effort, Theron. I only wished you could as well. Because I_ do _know what it is to be undermined. To be unwanted..._

"He'd told me many complimentary things like that. But what he'd failed to tell me was that he was married to a wife. One who apparently wasn't any of these things."

 _...To be undervalued. Unconsidered._

As the particular memory resurfaces with her words, she finds herself still unduly disparaged by it, despite the span of numbered years distancing it from her present bearing. The only things to disturb the passing stillness are her blinking eyes. She borrows a moment from the hanging silence to find the appropriate closure to this. Upon settling on one, she looks to the quiet agent once more, offering a sparing smile and a resigned shrug.

"But what was one harmless untruth from the mouth of an otherwise _decent_ man?"

The agent watches in his own dampening remorse as she returns her focus to the glowing datapad in her hands. Left with only his own inward voices remaining to reflect upon, he suddenly feels dwarfed by the dignified precision of her words. His residual discontent is quick to unravel in the wake of the trailing, cavernous silence that follows, and his prior grievances suddenly seem all but inconsequential—outside of being erroneously misdirected altogether, he now comes to observe. It isn't that he defaults to distrust with this Sith woman, but that he is too complacent with finding faults anywhere she is concerned. And he knows it—knows too well that this is presently more so to his detriment than any advantage it might offer.

"I'm sorry," he voices in a softening pitch. Though he does mean these words this time, they still feel foreign to his tongue. He wonders, as he often does, if they will ever stop feeling this way.

"I meant nothing by asking, Theron. I apologize if any offense was taken by it."

Only a colorless return. Her words are spoken to serve as acknowledgement of his apology and little else. Where his had been quite forthright, she speaks the same with leaden dispassion. It's enough to alleviate his simmering guilt, but he is doubtless of her methodically veiled exasperation.

"You're good. You don't need to apologize for anything," he is quick to assure her. As the silence continues unbroken, his solicitous gaze is drawn across the table once more, only to see that her focus has entirely been removed from the agent. There is no sense of any lingering inclination within her to pursue the fruitless conversation any further.

"I really am sorry, Lana," he speaks again. And this time, he directs the heart of these words solely unto her. "No one deserves that."

His sympathy _is_ sincere. But he isn't certain that she knows it. Even if she does, he understands that she has little reason to care. Yet deep within, he feels the visceral compulsion to absolve himself—to explain, to squarely dissociate his person from the root of her scorn.

"And I'm definitely not the kind of guy who does that."

With a finalizing swipe of her finger, the screen of the quiet Sith woman's datapad fades as the device shuts off. She promptly rises from her chair, shuffling the few items and documents at her station neatly into her hands before turning to leave.

"Thank you."

Her terse response registers hardly above a mumbled whisper to the agent's ears. Slight as it'd been, he knows she just as easily could have given him silence. His eyes follow her evenly paced footfalls until they take her beyond the adjoining corridor and out of sight.

With its passive pall settling in the wake of her abrupt departure, he begins to feel the arctic touch of the void. In her absence comes the solitude, the kind he's found to be most unwelcome of its sort. One he's come to grow familiar with in these past weeks. He is left growing ever more certain that it is her means of recompense. Where his ignited words may flare to a blaze and immolate her whole, she returns ten-fold with a chilling, barren silence—quietness like ice that burns from _beneath_ the skin.

And so they are both left with an entire collection of fractures and scars. Some visible. Others buried deep away from mortal sight. Each bearing a memory that shapes and reforms their very beings. There is _always_ something remaining to tear down. To chip away. To remake.

And the great tides of their neverending war still have yet to pour.

* * *

 **|| Reflection ||**

In the days following their previous quarrel, he is a bit extra mindful of himself and how he speaks around her. Puts some effort in his manners, his tone of voice. He isn't sure if it's because he's being more attentive, but she seems much quieter today. Judging from her listless nods, wordless responses, and lazed, hardly focused eyes, he might even say she seems a bit distracted.

... _Or are you just still pissed off at me here?_

Because he's certainly seen her do it. He doesn't put it past her to be this passive-aggressive. Though usually, she's a bit more obvious about it. In fact, it's the one thing she's not too good at being subtle about.

And at that very moment, he begins to sense that she's at it again, just as he's taking the time to meticulously explain a few things about his slicing procedure behind their next covert endeavors. Steering his eyes to the chair at his left, he sees that she seems at perfect, absent-minded leisure. Palm languidly cupped at the side of her face. Elbow propped against the arm of her chair. The entirety of her sedentary weight born idly into the delicate recline of the seat's sparsely cushioned back.

The agent lets his words trail to a halt and continues to train his pending gaze on her. It takes some passing seconds, but it seems the sudden absence of sound between them finally does reel her attention back to the world of consciousness.

Her bewildered sights blink and turn to find his own impatiently locked on hers.

"...Are you even listening?" he asks her, his simmering irritation bubbling through his deadened voice.

"Yes. I'm listening. Why did you stop?" she answers with a tentative shake of the head. Though her unassuming words come just haltingly enough to warrant his skepticism.

"Are you, _really_?"

His questioning holds such a fine edge that it catches her unguarded. She sees the narrowed focus of his eyes and sighs in resignation upon realizing his sunken mood. This time, she has no energy reserved to engage the agent any further. Her lips part as she reaches through her presently disjointed remnants of thought for something suitable to say. Yet in all the vocabulary her mind conjures, she finds nothing satisfactory to respond with.

"I don't know what to say to you, Theron," she tells him forthrightly. "I don't know what you _want_ from me."

"Well at the very least, how about some kind of _reaction_...?" he suggests derisively. "I feel like I'm talking to the walls here. You can let me know if I'm wasting my time, Lana."

"You're _not_ wasting—" she begins to insist, but her words are eclipsed by his unfinished criticism.

"—If there's something else you'd rather be doing, then fine. _Whatever_. Go do it."

"Theron, I _was_ listening."

Before she reaches the threshold of her restraint, she stops herself from speaking any cross word, pursing her lips tightly to her self-imposed silence. Releasing a breath, she finds she must will herself to raise her eyes to the insufferable agent if she is to endure this. If only he would give a _damned_ moment to consider her words. Allow her conscience just _enough_ peace so that she might find again the fortitude he has so recklessly, so _easily_ clouded. Just _enough_ for her to find her reasoning and senses once more. Because somehow... _ **somehow**_ , she's managed to lose it all in the short few weeks she has known this single, infuriating man.

 _Because..._

For the first time in her life, Lana is incapable of articulating herself. Of all the vast stores of words, letters, sounds...not one single, intelligible thought seems possible of the myriad.

Seeing nothing more to come of her, the baffled agent then decides to speak more of his mind.

"I know what's going on in there when you get all quiet like that, okay? You don't have to give me the cold shoulder. If something's bugging you, then just say it, Lana."

These following words are surprisingly tame, almost even inviting this time. He's found it in himself for once not to sound like a _complete_ asshole. Even so, she still seems disinclined to answer.

"What, is this about the other day? Look, I said I was sorry. And I meant that, okay?"

It's the first time in Agent Theron Shan's life to see the composure of a Sith wane before his eyes. He witnesses it, recognizes it as clear as his own mirrored image. And suddenly, the sight strikes him as one so woefully familiar. Though it yet remains one he can't quite place.

 _Oh, Theron. No. No...it's nothing to do with that. Far from it._

The overwhelming ambivalence continues to weigh heavily within her, and the longer it dwells, the harder she finds it to be to explain. Though it is well-intended, even Theron's solicitous regard is not enough to bring these roiling thoughts to light. Not as she has imagined it would.

"I'm sorry, Theron...if I've been distant of late. If I've seemed...disinterested," she manages to voice to him. But this seems as far as her halting nerves will permit her to say. "Please don't take my silence for apathy. I just thought...perhaps to avoid any other issues or confrontations..."

 _Is_ that _what this is about...?_

He releases a long sigh, but for once it isn't tinged with any breath of displeasure or exasperation.

"Look," he utters plainly as he runs a hand through the back of his scalp, "I know we've been...arguing a little more than usual."

He finds himself now uncertain of what he intends to say. That is, until he peers ahead to find that the mirror image before him still stands. Still staring back. Still unchanged. How he hasn't noticed this before, he doesn't quite understand.

"It isn't all you. You know, I get it, Lana. So...whatever it is, let's just talk it out." In his usual strange habit, he leaves the seat of his chair to take another against the edge of the computer console. "Right here," he urges, crossing his arms over his chest.

She's seen him do this many times over the weeks. So unprofessional. Utterly lacking of any sophistication. But embodied in this guileless gesture lies the unmistakable proof of his sincerity. This, she has also come to recognize well about him. And _this_ is one thing Theron Shan is not so good at being subtle about.

"Come on," he insists with an nod. "It's fine. We're always bitching at each other about being more open, right?"

Of all things, it's the agent's artless, casual profanity that stirs a glimmer of a smile to the Sith woman's lips. A small, plaintive one. It serves as enough of a good omen for him. And if her eyes hadn't been adrift, she would, too, witness another in the bounds of his very own pensive gaze. Perhaps it may have even served enough to expel the plaguing indecision in the depths of her heart. As much as he wills her to simply peer back through the mirror to _see_ , she relinquishes what impulse is left in her being with a resigned shake of the head.

"It's nothing," she dismisses in a merest voice before she finally does meet his eyes again. But the moment has gone, and the reflection has once more become obscured. The agent does not yet appear convinced, so she gives him her assurance. Even if it is but a fragment of one.

"It's nothing against you, Theron. I promise."

Upon his hesitation, his lips press tightly together with his lingering scrutiny. Seeing nothing more beyond this, he is left with little choice other than to accept her answer, though he is by no means satisfied with it.

"Okay then."

With these last, definitive words, he returns his attentions back to the computer screens, carrying on with his prior task.

"And you know...I know you want to avoid my shitty mood sometimes, but you don't have to... _not_ talk to around me. That's just weird. Just be—"

The sounds of her stirring bring his words to a halt. His eyes are drawn in the impulse of a quick glance back toward his left, only to find the now vacated seat of her chair.

"—Where are you going?"

"If it's all right with you, Theron...I'd like to retire early to my room tonight."

Though the air of doubt between them seems once again settled, she finds that she requires some moment to herself. A moment of contemplation. A moment of catharsis. A moment away from _him_.

Her sudden eagerness for departure stirs his conscience just enough to question her sincerity then. But he looks again to see that she does appear to be quite worn. So perhaps, she ought to get some extra rest.

"Sure, okay. Whatever you need to do."

"You'll be fine on your own, Theron?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I'll stay up and finish here. No worries," he contentedly assures her as he returns to his screens.

Perhaps his seeming indifference is a disguised blessing, Lana thinks to herself. She has every intention to simply return to her room. Yet there lingers an incomprehensible vestige of _something_ that suspends her entire being, that keeps her tethered to this very spot. And the path of her sights, too, cannot seem to avert its course.

It is here in this intangible abyss where her unsettled, innermost voices of nonsense and non-reason reign. Voices she still cannot translate, let alone articulate. They are the things that keep her legs still. They are the things that direct the focus of her bewildering gaze. They are the things that _remind_ her—the elusive image that she may not yet ascertain indeed lies before her. Lies well within the scope of her mortal reach.

Such a wonder it is, her disconsolate heart conceives. Or perhaps an insult. That one with Force-imbued sight is unable to recognize a thing made so pure as a mirror's reflection. She remains unable to grasp such a troubling quandary, so she wills herself to turn away at last. Averts her gaze from the indecipherable puzzle before her, and takes her leave. Just as her steps bring her to the hall's entryway, she hears the agent's unassuming voice against the empty air.

"G'night."

It is enough to seize her attention. She is stopped mid-step and peers over her shoulder once more at the lone man at the vast room's opposite end. It doesn't even appear as though he's stirred a hair, his focus so deeply fixed within the field of his computer screens, leaving her to wonder if she'd merely imagined his voice just then.

Compelled by her modest affections to at the very least, return the simple endearment, she thinks to bid him an equally good night. She very nearly brings herself to say it, but the words remain unformed at the very edge of her tongue. Until the moment's window passes upon her hesitation, and she is only able to depart with but a breath of silence on her lips. So she continues on. Back to her room. Back to her bereaving solitude away from _him_.

Unknowingly, her precarious sights have all but failed to discern her own reciprocal then—that his focus is drawn, not to the images of flying data and illuminated texts across the screens before him, but to that of the woman in departure, captured pristinely within the translucent, mirrored world's reflection cast. _Her_ reflection.

The uncertainty.

The reluctance.

The _longing_.

He'd glimpsed it all within the plainspoken view of her countenance. And it only becomes clear to him after the image of her finally recedes away into the depths, that _those_ had been the very things she could not bring herself to reveal. He recognizes them well. They are the very same things his eyes find within his own image reflected back.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

All righty...I've got SOMETHING out, lol. Again, I apologize for such a super long wait. I know some of you guys have been waiting all this time, and I thank you so much for sticking around. And for your messages lighting a fire under me bum to write like the damned wind, haha.

I just want everyone to know I have most definitely not abandoned any of my stories. I've just gotten super swamped with things for the past few months, much of it having to do with commitments to ballroom dance, which I do competitively...so it does eat up a lot of time to train and take lessons and stuff, especially when the comps start coming around. ^_^; And when it coincides with extra work stuff, I just have either zero brain capacity or zero time to get much writing in. So...I do apologize.

As always, I hope you guys enjoy this and future blurbs to come! (And if anyone is also following along in my other fic, I _swear_ the next chapter for that is in the works... I'm aiming really hard for a pre-New Year deadline. We'll see how that goes, lol.)

Please feel free to leave a review, and don't ever be shy about sending me a PM if you like! :D


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